


I'm gonna cover myself with the ashes of you (and nobody's gonna give a damn)

by Gorgeousgreymatter



Category: Preacher (Comics), Preacher (TV)
Genre: First Time, I started writing this after the first episode, M/M, This is basically headcanon now, but it's a mean dog, dominant jesse, submissive cassidy, these two are idiots, tw: cassidy eats a dog
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-06
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-22 00:42:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7411666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gorgeousgreymatter/pseuds/Gorgeousgreymatter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jesse knows he should be troubled by it, how easy it is to follow Cass down the path of sin he so willingly walked upon. Jesse knows he lets himself be dragged along, maybe not so readily all the time, but he goes just the same.<br/>He also knows he doesn’t want to stop.</p><p>And Cassidy? Well, teasing the preacher was fun and all, but it didn’t hide the fact that Cassidy had the most pathetically over-the-top,  school-girl crush on the man. It was just plain embarrassing. Cassidy was a 119-year-old  vampire. He didn’t get crushes--usually everyone around him ended up dead, anyway, so what was the point of that, really? Until Jesse fucking Custer came along and spoiled his fun by being all dashing, and handsome, and just….too bloody good for this shite town. </p><p>Wanker.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Son of a bitch

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize that the formatting in this is fucked. But I'm on my work computer so. Haha adulthood.

I’m gonna cover myself with the ashes of you (and nobody’s gonna give a damn)

 

While church attendance had seemed to be steadily growing, surprisingly, something Jesse thought had quite a lot to do with Emily’s efforts (“No, Padre, I’m quite certain it was you snappin’ a grown man’s arm--him makin’ a bleedin’ bunny sound in front of a dozen or so of these gobshites’.”), there was still never quite a moment where Jesse felt comfortable at all up there, helming the pulpit. If there was ever a way for him to feel ten-years-old again, it was every god-blessed Sunday morning, Jesse standing up there, tugging at his shirtsleeves, the sun-burned gaze of his flock trained listlessly upon him. Their mouths seemed to hang slack and open, gaping at him as he spoke, like they were a hundred fucking fish-out-of-water gasping for life. 

And then, somehow worse, had come the whole issue of Cassidy. The skinny slip of a man had no problem sleeping straight through the day, most every day, continuing the pattern he’d established ever since he’d blown into town that night and designated himself Jesse Custer’s unofficial right-hand man. But still, no matter how much they’d drank or smoked or argued the night before, the Irishman always managed to stumble his way into morning service, just a second away from almost-but-not-quite right on time, seemingly just to torture Jesse. 

The self-proclaimed “vampire,” (“Sure Cass’. I believe you...a vampire. Sounds fun…” A devilish smile of what Jesse was sure couldn’t be the normal human amount of teeth for anyone, followed by a slurred, “Oh, Padre, I assure you, it can be, sometimes.”) seemed to take explicit pleasure in trying to get a rise out of him. Jesse would be trying to focus on his sermon, on Ezekiel's warning to be vigilant, the parable of the lost coin, on Lot’s wife’s mistake, anything, and all he’d be able to see was Cass’s cheeky grin, followed by the multitude of absurd facial expressions, apparently practiced solely in their designs to fluster him. 

At least he could pass the chuckling off for coughing fits. 

No one would question it, the amount he smoked these days.

//

Cassidy had never been good at the whole denying oneself thing, never had been, not even in his short miserable time as a real human being. It was worse, lately, what with the bloody righteous preacher and his whatever-the-fuck, allure maybe, that the great oaf of a man so obtusely didn’t seem to realize he possessed. And it wasn’t the vamp’s fault that the preacherman was a squirmer. That just made it somehow better, made it downright fuckin’ fun (and ridiculously easy, he might add), for Cassidy to sit, arms crossed behind his head, with his bony legs propped lackadaisically on the wooden pews in front of him, and scrunch up his face, all the while staring unabashedly. Jesse would flounder, try to shame Cass with a stern gaze, one perhaps followed by a deep clearing of his throat, a series of tactics which might’ve worked on a man that still possessed an ounce of shame. Cassidy, on the other hand, would simply smile, flipping up the visor-ed sunglasses he’d swiped from the church van’s glove box, to wiggle his eyebrows and mime a hanged man’s rope choking the life out of himself. 

“I think boring’s the worst.”

And wasn’t that the truth?

 

This Sunday in particular was the first after Tracy Loach’s “miracle”, and so the oak pews seemed to Cassidy to actually be groaning aloud, straining under the collective weight of Annville’s newly “faithful” flock. Bunch of bleedin’ gawkers was what they really were, Cass’ thought, but who could blame them, preacher lookin’ like that? The vampire had seen a lot of churches in his days, but he ain’t never seen a holy man look anything at all like Jesse Custer. Sure, the part for the air conditioner was still “lost in the mail”, and would remain so until Cass’ was certain Padre wasn’t going to send him away (an idea that Cassidy, who’d previously possessed no qualms about ambling through the past century as nothing more than a violent and god-damn bloody rolling stone, had come to positively dread), but he had to say that watching the beads of sweat drip down Jesse’s gold-flecked skin was a captivating reason enough for him to never fix the bleedin’ thing at all. 

//

And what with the tiny church stuffed to the brims today, it was downright hellish in its heat, so much so that Jesse’s sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, hair drenched with sweat. Honestly, he’d lost track of what he was saying so long ago that he hadn't really bothered to try and find his thread again. 

At least Emily seemed to pick up on the group’s discomfort, and before Jesse’d realized it, she was playing the procession march to signal the end of service. No one seemed to mind that their preacher had barely managed a sermon at all, hardly offered a bowed head or a blessing of thanks as they’d started to leave. No, they all just seemed to collectively sigh and stand, grateful to be adjourning to the main house for the real blessings of the day: the breeze of the many electric fans Emily’d thought to set up early that morning, and the promise of cold drinks of every kind. 

As sure as there was a God, please let there still be beer, Jesse thought to himself, hands shoved into his pockets as he trudged up the dusty road to the main house, too hot and sticky and tired to engage in pleasantries. Not very preacherly of him, maybe, but at the moment he couldn’t really be bothered. His stomach still felt tied up in knots as he ruminated over the absurd events over the past few days--the vacant, newly-opened eyes of Tracy Loach, of Donnie nearly pissing himself on that gas station john, his mouth quivering around that shiny, silver gun barrel--how Jesse’s entire body seemed to buzz with something every time he reached into that newfound power inside of him, body vibrating like a metal fork stuck in an electrical socket. 

Fucking terrifying and exhilarating all at once, that was what it was. 

He didn't even realize he’d made it to the building until the resounding thud of his boots on the scuffed floor shook him out of his own mind just in time to keep him from smacking head-first into the doorframe.

“Very smooth, Padre!” And Jesse’s already smiling, cheeks flushed, glancing up to see the irishman tipping an imaginary hat his way, looking as cartoonish as ever. Cassidy was spinning literal circles around Jesse, all the while twirling a giant black umbrella over both their heads. 

“You know, Cass, that’s thirteen years bad luck, you bring that thing open inside,” Jesse drawled, arms folded as he leaned against the door, people passing by, not paying him any mind for once, like he was just some stone stuck in a riverbed and they were all just flowing right around him

Cass just winked and shrugged.

“I’ll take those odds, Padre.” 

Yeah, Jesse thought. He bet he would.

//

Normally, landing in a place like shit-nowhere Annville, Texas would be enough for Cassidy to cut and run with whatever he could steal and just be on his merry way. The crippling heat alone was enough to deter him, not to mention the fact that nothing seemed to happen here, ever, and damned if Cassidy meant to watch the same fuckin’ tumbleweeds pass by him on daily basis. And the people, well, they weren’t nothin’ to write home about. Generally, he found in his travels over the years that people were the same everywhere, all the time: greedy, violent, angry, little shites that drifted through life with an over-inflated sense of purpose. But the people of Annville, they were somehow worse, which was saying something.

Talk about boring—Christ.

And well, teasing the preacher was fun and all, but it didn’t hide the fact that Cassidy had the most pathetically over-the-top, school-girl crush on the man. It was just plain embarrassing. Cassidy was a 119-year-old vampire. He didn’t get crushes--usually everyone around him ended up dead, anyway, so what was the point of that, really? Until Jesse fucking Custer came along and spoiled his fun by being all dashing, and handsome, and just….too bloody good for this shite town. 

Wanker.

//

(A/N: I’m switching to present tense because deal with it. I’ll never finish this otherwise lolz.)

Cassidy is half-way through his fourth cigarette in the last hour. He’s hiding on the second floor landing, resting awkwardly on his elbows as the church-goers pack the living room and the kitchen like bloody parasites. It was too much for him down there at the moment, all the dirt and sweat and blood mingling together (not to mention the fact that the last time he’d fed had been the run-in with the chainsaw twins, and that was nearly a week ago. And let it be known, they had been decidedly NOT delicious. Better than cow, sure, but ew. ). He shudders and gags at the memory, extinguishing the dwindling cigarette in his hand right onto his palm with a sigh, feeling the flesh sizzle, followed by the pins-and-needles sensation of instantaneous healing. He watches the smoke as it hovers listlessly above his head in cloudy, gray tendrils. 

He was well and truly fucked, all right. 

He doesn’t get to muse for long, finding himself shaken--fuckin’ shattered, really--out of his thoughts by a loud popping sound that nearly makes him shit himself. At first he thinks it's a gun gone off, and his face and hair are wet, dripping with what he figures must be blood. But there's no pain, and then he hears it: the high-pitched cackling of what was unmistakably children’s laughter. 

He tips his head forward, puzzled, and the limp, latex corpse of a water balloon falls into his hand. When he looks up, he sees the culprits: Emily’s twin boys...Tyler...Terry...Taylor...something-or-other.  
The two, blonde-headed devils are grinning at him, already looking like they’re ready to throw their next batch of balloons, which was really the last thing Cassidy needed right now. He’d rather wait to deal with their she-wolf of a mother yelling at him after he’s had some alcohol. Okay, a lot of alcohol. 

With a noticeable woosh, Cassidy is upon them in a flash, picking the boys up by their t-shirts and holding them like two sacks of squirming potatoes. 

This doesn’t seem to derail either one of the boys, as they continue to beat their tiny fists against his rib-cage. Cassidy remains unperturbed; their futile attempts at violence feel more like the brush of a butterfly’s wings than actual punches. He snickers and shakes his head, even as one of the boys is wailing pitifully into his left ear.  
“War’s over boyos’, “ he says cheerily, with a toothy grin that seems to finally silence them both. “Time to do what all soldiers do best: pour one out for ye’ fallen comrades.” 

There’s a chorus of more giggling at that, but Cassidy just ignores it. When he makes it to the kitchen, he’s pleased to see that it’s cleared out a bit—the stench of dirt and piss and sweat and blood is not quite so cloying in his nostrils.  
When Emily spies him, it’s no surprise to him that her eyebrows are already raised a mile high on her forehead, and she’s got her freckled arms resting accusingly on each hip. Her hair’s frizzled from the heat, and her cheeks are flushed a pale pink that might’ve been pretty once. The result, instead, thinks Cassidy, is quite intimidating.  
“Cassidy,” she sighs, “why’re you all wet? You’re drippin’ all over the floor.”  
The vampires raises his hands up in surrender. “Now this, this weren’t me. Your spawn had a wee incident with some water balloons but I’ve gone and rectified the situation with minimal casualties, you see…” And at that, he points to the two boys who at least have the decency to look mildly ashamed, though their faces are inexplicably covered with grape juice, so the effect is somewhat dampened.  
“Water balloons?!” Emily shrieks, and the sound is like a shotgun going off. He thinks the sound’ll be ringing in his head for days. 

Emily grabs the two wriggling boys by the ears, presumably to clean up the mess they’ve made and to give them what’ll sure to be an earful. Poor sods.  
“Gods, woman, you’ll burst a poor man’s eardrum goin’ on like tha’,” Cassidy huffs. He’s already reaching into the open icebox, fingers curling around the necks of two ice-cold beers, when he hears her voice again, like nails on a chalkboard: “Just one, Cassidy! One!”  
Cassidy tuts and shakes his head, using his hard nail to pop the top off the bottle with ease before draining it in a single gulp. He’s about to start on the second one when he feels a hand close around his fingers to keep them still, grip not too hard, but strong.  
“One of those for me, Cass?” Jesse drawls, his voice low and gravelly from the heat and the dust. The preacher is leaning up against the wall and Cassidy think it’s just unfair how enthralling the man is, even just inclined against a fecking wall.  
“Not originally, but I suppose I can share,” Cassidy says in an attempt to sound nonchalant. Jesse still hasn’t removed his hand from Cassidy’s, and the man’s skin feels blazing hot against Cassidy’s cold fingers. Jesse doesn’t let go, but instead slides his palm up around the neck of the bottle, before popping the top off with the edge of the counter-top. He takes a sip and Cassidy follows the movement of his throat as Jesse swallows the liquid down, the vampire’s eyes wide and eager. He’s so mesmerized that he almost doesn’t notice when the preacher speaks again.  
“So, now that you been properly baptized,” Jesse starts with a grin, reaching out and tugging on the strands of Cassidy’s wet hair, “you ready to accept Jesus Christ as your lord and savior?”  
Cassidy snickers and shakes his head, extra hard, just so drops of water fly off of him onto the Preacher’s face. Jesse whines and jabs him in the ribs. “Dick.”  
“Not very Christian at all!” Cassidy chides, adding, “‘sides, don’t believe in Beatles, God, or Gita, Padre. Just believe in me.”  
Jesse chuckles and tips his bottle. “John Lennon. Groovy.”  
“Oh, what’s this now? Didn’t think you listened to anything but that damn twangy shite they’ve got playin’ on every station.”  
Jesse smirks and leans in so close that Cassidy feels hot breath against his ear, maybe even a brush of lips (this he could be imagining, hoping at the very least), and shivers. Jesse doesn’t seem to notice, or maybe he does and he’s doing it on purpose. Cassidy can’t decide which is more thrilling.  
“I’ll tell you a secret, Cass. Don’t much care for country music.”  
“Well now,” Cassidy recovers with a cough, “I think they hang you for that out here—“ and he’s just about to say something else when he feels a tug on his pants leg. Looking down, he sees Emily’s other kid, the girl, wee thing barely coming up to his kneecaps, her eyes wet with the beginning of tears.  
“What’s this now?” Cassidy murmurs, crouching down so he can look the girl in eyes as he speaks to her.  
“I can’t find my momma,” she whispers, “and I’m thirsty.” Cassidy looks up questioningly at Jesse, but the man doesn’t offer any suggestion. He just watches the interaction, looking bemused.  
And the last thing Cassidy wants to do is leave Jesse’s side, but he does because dammit he’ll get that she-wolf of a woman to at least tolerate his presence here, cuz’ he don’t plan on leavin’ anytime soon if he can help it.  
“All right, little bird. Climb aboard and we’ll get somethin’ to wet yer whistle,” says Cassidy, leaning forward so the little bit can wrap her arms around his neck all secure-like before he lifts her into the air with ease. She weighs nothing, like carrying a feather. She giggles, and the strands of her silvery, blonde hair tickle the back of Cassidy’s neck.  
He sets her on the kitchen counter and wipes her tear-stained cheeks with his thumb, before rummaging in the cooler again for a box of juice. The girl drinks it down eagerly, her legs kicking happily against the wooden baseboards.  
“Why do you talk funny?” says the girl, eyes focused laser-like on Cassidy’s face to the point he starts to feel like he’s being x-rayed.  
“Ain’t from around here,” Cassidy says, reaching in his pocket for a smoke and lighting it. The girl seems unbothered, surely used to the constant smell of smoke radiating throughout town.  
“My momma says it’s because you’re an idiot,” the girl says matter-of-factly.  
Cassidy takes a long drag before replying, “Yer mom, well, she’s probably right ‘bout tha’. Though—she’s a bit scary, ain’t she?”  
The girl laughs again like Cassidy is the funniest thing she’s ever seen in her short life.  
“Why do you wear those glasses inside? Momma says those are for outside only.”  
“Cuz’ I’m tryin’ to be cool. Is it working?” Cassidy asks, grinning.  
The girl blushes. “I don’t know. I don’t know what cool looks like.”  
“Well now, time for you to find out, then,” Cassidy says, whipping off his glasses and wincing only slightly as the light hits his sensitive eyes. He places them on the bridge of the girl’s nose and she cackles with delight.  
“Feckin’ cool as hell, darling.”  
“Cassidy, what are you doin’?” Uh oh. Busted.  
“Not a thing, Emily, love.. Just helping little Alice here get a nice frosty beverage. No trouble at all.” Cassidy says.  
Emily’s hardened expression is suddenly, if his own eyes aren’t deceiving him, a little bit softer than normal.  
“Look, momma. I’m cool!” The little girl says proudly as Emily scoops her up off the counter-top and sets her on her feet.  
“I can see that. Now go and find your brothers. We’re getting ready to leave. You all got soccer practice in an hour and I’m sure it’ll take that long just to find your brothers’ uniforms.”  
And with what might actually be a nod of approval, she turns and leaves Cassidy standing there, mouth agape. He hears Jesse come up behind him, feels the weight of his hand heavy on his shoulder.  
“You know,” says Jesse, “You’re good with them, the kids I mean. Can’t say I ain’t surprised.”  
“I’m Irish, Jesse. I’ve got—had—eight brothers and sisters. ‘Sides, I like kids. They’re honest, no bullshite. Like tiny, little sociopaths. Gotta respect tha’”  
“Had?” Jesse prods gently.  
“Now, none of that,” Cassidy says, poking a finger into Jesse’s chest. “Bunch of wankers, all of them, anyway, and I shan’t speak of them no more.” As if to illustrate his point, Cassidy grabs the bottle from Jesse’s hands and drains it, wordlessly.  
“Sure thing, Cass, sure thing.”


	2. If you want a driver, climb inside

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title's from Leonard Cohen's "I'm Your Man," which I listened to incessantly while writing this dialogue bit.
> 
> Also I'm sorry I haven't finished this but at least you get something.

Jesse spends the rest of the afternoon drowning in the heat, entertaining the seemingly endless line of the newly saved suddenly desperate for his advice and attention. He thinks he should find this more humorous, how none of them have listened to a word he’'s said for months, but now they look at him like he was Jesus come down from the cross his-self.

Cass was right. Annville was a fucking crazy place. Speaking of the man, he’d zipped away pretty quick after their talk in the kitchen, and Jesse can’t shake the curling, aching feeling in his gut when he thinks of him. Jesse knows he should be troubled by it, how easy it is to follow Cass down the path of sin he so willingly walks upon. Jesse knows he lets himself be dragged along, maybe not so readily all the time, but he goes just the same.

He also knows he doesn’t want to stop.

So where does that leave him?

It’s nearing sundown now, and Jesse’s left the doors and windows of the church wide open, thankful for the slight breeze that has just started to tease itself through the eaves of the building as the sun begins its descent. He’s truly alone now, Cass likely still sleeping or off doing whatever it is he did when Jesse wasn’t watching. The priest collar feels more like a noose than anything at the moment, so Jesse loosens it, along with several of his shirt buttons, and sighs with relief. He sparks up a cigarette, but doesn’t move to turn any more lights on, content to sit in the dim, orange glow of sundown, a full bottle of whiskey at his feet.

He’s about to pop it open and take a swig when the cigarette he’s smoking gets ripped right from his lips.  
In his defense, Jesse’s been jumped before, so he acts on instinct, grabbing the thieving arm and twisting it, following that with a sharp grip around a skinny neck.

“Jaysus, Padre!” A voice squeaks wheezily, and Jesse turns, horrified, to see Cass clenching the hand grasped around his throat, cigarette still dangling pathetically between his lips, ash falling between them like snow.

“What the fuck, Cass? Why’d you sneak up on me like that? I could’ve killed you.” Jesse grouses, immediately letting go and expecting the man to take heaving gulps of air when he does, but Cass doesn’t. Fucking weirdo. 

“I didn’t realize you were bloody fuckin’ Jason Bourne, Padre! Christ, just wanted to share a fag with my best mate,” murmurs Cass, who has seemingly recovered enough from his trauma to sprawl out beside Jesse, resting his booted feet on the back of the pew, his head falling just barely against Jesse’s denim-clothed thigh.

“In America, we usually just say please,” Jesse grumbles, snatching his cigarette back from between Cassidy’s lips. Cassidy whines. Jesse reaches down for the bottle at his feet and hands it over to the man lying beside him, trying to ignore the fact that he finds Cass’s sudden grabby hands more endearing than irritating.

“Happy, now?” Jesse asks, though there's no immediate response as Cassidy gulps down the burning liquid with a disregard that makes the preacher cringe. He's never met a man who can handle shit whiskey better than Cass. 

Cassidy’s lips pull off the bottle and it’s is so positively obscene in the way it echoes throughout the quiet church, and then Cassidy just shrugs, makes a noncommittal noise, and fucking nestles further into Jesse’s hip like he belongs there. Jesse’s thigh twitches. He thinks this might be the longest the man’s gone without talking in Jesse’s presence and he’s never wished more that Cassidy would just fucking say something so Jesse could hear something other than his stuttering thigh and quickening pulse.

“Uh, Cass, you gotta’ do that? In Texas, we have a thing here with personal space. S’kinda a big thing.”

Cassidy chuckles but makes no efforts to move. “It’s the guilt thing, yeah? Why they make these benches so bloody uncomfortable. Not only do ya haf’ to repent and say yer hail marys ‘til yer voice goes hoarse, but yer ass must suffer as well.” 

“And here I thought you might just make it thirty seconds without blaspheming, and just my luck, I’m close enough to share the lightning bolt,” Jesse says.

“Well that’s jus’ tha thing, isn’t it?” asks Cassidy. “You’re the lightning now, Padre. Got that power in ya’, the one you think comes from your God.” Cassidy draws on his cigarette, brows pinched, and adds with a voice exaggerated low and booming, “‘Is na’ my word like as a fire? Tha’ hammer tha’ breaks a rock in pieces!’” 

So Cassidy knows his verses. Jesse is impressed. “I know it.” It’s a lie. He hopes it, that’s for sure. Everything in this world can’t be shit, it just can’t be. Something like this can’t happen without it being for something. Jesse doesn’t know what he’ll do, what he’ll be, if it’s just for nothing. 

“Mmm. But I been thinking,” Cassidy goes on, thrusting his hand in front of Jesse’s face, pressing the filter of the cigarette right against Jesse’s lips without the preacher even having to ask for a hit. Jesse fits his mouth around the orange tip, pulls deep, the tiny flame crackling and smoldering. And then there's Cassidy somehow also knowing exactly how long to hold it there before pulling away. Jesse exhales the smoke in one long sigh. Cassidy doesn’t flinch or cough as it settles into a haze over his own nose and mouth. 

“What a revelation,” Jesse retorts. 

“Arse,” Cassidy says flatly. He gives Jesse the finger and goes on, “It’s kind of a misnomer then, ain’t it? Now tha’ you got the word a’ God in ya’, tha’ whole free will thing? Yer not exactly free--not with someone else, that someone else bein’ you, pullin’ the reins, eh?.” 

“People choose wrong,” Jesse says, hoping his tone sounds more stern and decisive than he feels. “People in Annville been choosing wrong for a long time. Too long.”

Cassidy sits up, head cocked, and stares at Jesse for a long time, as if searching for something, before that familiar devil’s grin flashes across his features. “But Padre, choosin’ is the best part.” 

Jesse’s breath quickens and there’s a beat where neither of them speaks. “What happened to all that nonsense about possibilities?” he says, just to say something, anything, to avoid Cass’s unwavering, unblinking gaze and the long silence that sits metered and stretched between them. 

“Oh, never listen ta’ me’. I’ve been talkin’ out my arse for a century now,” Cassidy says. Right, Jesse thinks, a century. Because Cassidy thinks he's a vampire. A 119-year-old vampire from Dublin city. Right-handed. Sagittarius. The facts Cass rattled off not so many nights ago fill his head like a mantra.

“Loves Chinese food. Never seen the Pacific Ocean…,” Jesse mutters, hand reaching out for the bottle that's not there. It's still in Cass’s loosening grip, resting against his sharp-boned knee.

“You all right there, Padre?” And Cassidy’s reaching for him, Jesse can see those nimble fingers grasping, and he flinches. The hand drops.

“Why you alway’s callin’ me that, Cass? Padre?” He asks. Because Cassidy knows Jesse’s secrets, a lot of them, anyway, and Jesse wants to know something about him. 

Cass makes him want. Therein lies the problem. 

“Had a Father, weren't too fond o’ him,” Cass answers suddenly, and forcefully, “and I ain't calling you preacher like your Jesus-freaks. You want I should call ya ‘Daddy?’”

Jesse grins. Cass seems to be the only one who can make him do that lately. 

“You scared to say my name?” And Jesse doesn't know why he pokes, prods (yes, he does, a small part of him thinks, knows). He hopes Cass can't see the way his face flushes hot in the dark.

“Ya ain't, Voldemort, Padre.”

He's kept his eyes forward this whole time, like a good boy in church, but Jesse Custer is not a good boy. He's a bad man, a bad, bad man. 

“I could make you say it.”


	3. Ain't a Friend in This Whole World, I Wouldn't Take for All Their Worth, if They're Naive Enough to Let Me Have the Keys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassidy finds himself slack-jawed and struck dumb. Jesse’s pulse is thundering, Cassidy can hear it and he just wants to reach over and shake the man until he stops because the sound is short-circuiting his brain. The church is so quiet except for that---the thump, thump, thump of all that blood right underneath the skin. Cassidy’s mouth is dry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: Cassidy eats the dog in this one. Funnily enough, this was part of the plot before he actually ate a dog on the show. So basically I'm psychic. It's not too graphic, but just thought I'd warn ya.
> 
> FINALLY WE ARE GETTING CLOSER TO THE SMUTTY GOODNESS I HAVE PROMISED. SOON MY MINIONS. SOON.

Cassidy finds himself slack-jawed and struck dumb. Jesse’s pulse is thundering, Cassidy can hear it and he just wants to reach over and shake the man until he stops because the sound is short-circuiting his brain.  The church is so quiet except for that---the thump, thump, thump of all that blood right underneath the skin. Cassidy’s mouth is dry.

He closes it, thankfully, before the growl building in his throat manages to escape.

“There’s a lot ye’ could make me do,” the vampire finally speaks, no more than a whisper, “but chances are, ye’ wouldn’t have to. Ye’ jus’ have to ask.”

Jesse is turning to look at him, finally, and he’s got this expression on his face. Cassidy knows it like he knows anything: hunger.

“Jesse,” Cassidy murmurs, and Jesse closes his eyes and Cassidy can see the shiver traveling right up the preacherman’s spine.  If he only just reached, the vampire would bet anything the man would reach right back.

But when has Cassidy ever had good luck? Never. His luck...utter shite.

“Yer phone’s ringin’…,”

And it is, he’s not lying--Cassidy can hear the vibration just as it starts up, a split second before the ringing howls out of the preacher’s pocket.  It startles the man, and Cassidy’s almost knocked off the bench by Jesse’s knee as it snaps up, hands digging frantically in his pockets for the infernal device. Thankfully, being a vampire means mercifully quick reflexes, and they spare Cass the indignation of a broken nose.

“Shit--fuck,” Jesse sputters, and Cassidy can’t help but laugh.

It’s Emily. He only knows this because two days ago, Cassidy swiped Jesse’s phone and reprogrammed her ringtone to ELO’s, “Evil Woman.”

Jesse’s arching an eyebrow but he’s grinning, covering his face with one hand, looking slightly exasperated.  He answers and Cassidy can’t help it--he eavesdrops. It’s not like it’s hard, and it’s not his fault...Emily’s practically screaming hysterically into the phone when Jesse answers it. Something about one of the little ones getting bit, a dog got out, and Emily’s car wouldn’t start and could Jesse come now, please?

Of course Jesse says yes. He’s the preacher, and it’s Emily. He has to.

Cassidy doesn’t wait for Jesse to get off the phone. He slips out of the room and ambles up to the attic, sucking on the bottle of whiskey he’d at least been smart enough to swipe before leaving to dull the ache of lust and loss heavy in his belly.

“Aw, Christ,” Cassidy curses, taking one last, big swallow before the bottle falls to the ground with a thud. “Fucking Jesse Custer.”

//

Fucking Jesse Custer, indeed, thinks Cassidy, hands on his hips as he stands before a dilapidated yellow house surrounded by (of course) bloody razor wire. The gate’s not even maintained well enough, which probably explains how one of the dogs had gotten out of the yard in the first place. The house, compared to Emily’s (though hers is modest in size, it is lovingly and diligently cared for), looks like a crack den. Cassidy should know…he’s been to quite a few in his day.

From what he’d overheard from Jesse’s phone call, the woman who lives here breeds some kind of prize-winning hound dogs. Apparently she weren’t too good at watching them, and one of them had dug a hole under the gate and taken a nice chunk out of Emma’s wrist. That alone had made Cassidy’s blood boil and his teeth ache for a kill, hearing that, as he was surprised to find himself quite fond of the wee thing.

Approaching the gate, from what Cassidy can see, hear, and smell…there weren’t much prize-winning about them. It doesn’t take long for the beasties to reveal themselves—dogs, cats, smarter animals on the food chain always seem to recognize him for what he really is:  a predator. There’s a chorus of baying and snarling and howling, and Cassidy crouches down when he hears the rusty creak of a screen door being thrown open.

“Shut up you mangy dogs! Good for nothing!” The woman on the porch is fat, enormously so, and Cassidy can see from where he’s hiding that her face is sallow and jaundiced, eyes wild and yellowed. He supposes he could always eat her as well, but ugh, he finds the thought too nauseating to even swallow, no pun intended. There’s a chorus of more cursing, and finally the dogs quiet down and the woman turns back into the house, door slamming behind her. Cassidy hears the hum of a television set, the antennae settings not quite right, so the buzzing is like needles in his eardrums.

When he’s sure she’s occupied, Cassidy vaults the fence with relative ease, though his shirt catches a bit on the wires and he scoffs, examining the damage. One of the dogs he sees out of the corner of his eye, and it’s a sad-looking beast, skin and bones at best, and he can hear quiet whimpering low in its chest as it squeezes itself as far back into its filthy pen as it can. Obviously not the culprit, he thinks. Though he wonders, for a moment if he ought to put the thing out of its misery, too, but banishes the thought. Better to leave the fence open, give the thing some kind of chance.

Now the other one, that’s a different story, Cass thinks, grinning wide as he hears the bigger one of the two approaching him from behind, a vicious growl building in its throat. It’s an ugly brute, its jaws already snapping at the air in front of it. It’s a bitch, Cass realizes, noting the great, ugly tits swinging beneath its monstrous belly. This one seems to be fed more often, though Cass can smell the penny-sweet scent of human blood mixed with drool dripping down the dog’s muzzle. She bares her teeth and Cass bares his right back, his spine arched and his knees bent in what can only be interpreted as a challenge.

The dog lunges and it’s over quick. Cassidy doesn’t break its neck first, just rips right into its jugular and drinks deep, the animal pinned tight in the cage of his arms. He might not look it, not at all, but Cassidy is stronger than most everyone, and when he actually puts in the effort to fight, his grip is damn near unbreakable.

The blood is disappointing, as most everything he’s tasted here. Cass can taste the malnourishment and disease tainting its life force and he groans as he throws the drained corpse away from him in disgust, still feeling thoroughly unsatisfied. He’ll drag the wrecked body out far enough that folks will have to think it an animal attack. Wouldn’t be no help to Emily or Jesse, people thinking they had anything to do with it. Not like he’ll be leaving proof anyway.

Because it’s bloody unreal how much he finds he cares about the possibility of hurting Jesse, even Emily, though he still doesn’t like her. Not at all. So he tells himself.

At that, Cass finds himself giggling—honest to god  _ giggling _ , as he picks fur out of his teeth and spits rancid-tasting blood out of his mouth, wishing it were whisky.   

Getting up, he looks down to see he’s lost another shirt, hot blood splattered all across his face and chest. He was never a very neat eater, and he hopes there’s been another rash of clothing donations to accompany the town’s new religious fervor, because at the rate he’s going through them, he might as well not wear any at all.

Whistling as he works, Cassidy quickly cleans up any sign of his footprints, hoisting the dog’s carcass over his shoulder as he uses his hands to rip a nice, ragged hole in the fence, licking off the blood that pools in his palms. With fresh blood in his system, he heals quick and there’s just a flash of pain, which Cass is thankful for.

And if he happens to go back to take a crack at Emily’s ramshackle mini-van (the thing’s starter cables were a fuckin’ wreck), well, that ain’t nobody’s business but his own.

He deposits the body near the edge of the woods by a main road. Someone will find it in the morning, soon enough, and with Jesse and Emily still at the hospital, he figures they ought to be free and clear of any suspicion.

When he returns to the church, dawn is fast approaching—he can feel it in his bones, the pull of it trying to lull him into his dead-sleep. He doesn’t enough time to shower, unsure when Jesse might burst through the doors (and with the amount of blood splattered all over his skinny self, Cassidy’s not quite ready to have a conversation about that just yet). He uses the garden hose instead, the water blissfully cold, but barely a drip, to wash himself, shucking his jeans and boots until he’s naked as the day he was born. The tattered remains of his shirt he buries in the pitiful little cemetery out back, and by the time he’s finished, he can smell and hear the tell-tale sizzle liked cooked meat as the sun’s first and lightest rays hit his bare back.

He runs into the old, wooden church and slams the door behind him, slumping to the floor with a groan, utterly exhausted. He crawls on his hands and knees up the stairs, thankful that the building is empty (he can hear that it is, bless that much) eyes already narrowed to mere slits as light starts to filter through the windows around him. When he makes it to the attic, he falls onto the bed like dead weight, praising whatever asshole gods stupid Jesse Custer believed in that had  somehow reminded him to shut the blinds before he’d left that night. He yanks a threadbare quilt off the floor where he’d tossed it earlier and buries himself underneath it, just like when he’d used to go to ground in Ireland, before coming to the mainland. Then he shuts his eyes and the darkness is all he knows, as he’s dead until sundown.


End file.
